by Will Wight
Shera knew he didn’t mean her specifically. She was just the closest stand-in for all mortals.
But she didn’t have the patience or time to humor a bout of immortal self-pity.
“What about you? Are you telling me that almost burning Calder Marten was the best you can do?”
Jorin lowered his gaze to Estyr.
When it was clear he wouldn’t respond, Shera left him.
She forced herself up the stairs, avoiding the long crack in the ancient stone. Estyr’s first fit had been almost unrestrained, and it had set the earth quaking all over Rainworth.
She shoved open the door, which now stuck in its warped frame, to see that all work in the main library basement had stopped. There were more than just Consultants here now—the place was packed with Independents, from alchemists to Greenwardens.
One and all, they stopped what they were doing, looking to her for news.
Shera shut the door behind them and let them wonder. She stalked off, ignoring their silent pleas.
If she didn’t get some sleep soon, she was going to knife someone.
But before she could, there was a meeting.
Another meeting.
This one had been scheduled in the same conference room in which she’d met with Loreli and Estyr before, but this time, there were no Regents present. Only Guild Heads.
Bareius sat at the head of the table, bouncing up and down with nervous energy. His glasses rested on the table and his suit no longer looked as slick and pristine as it had before, but he gave no sign of suffering from the same side effects Shera felt from the Champion potion.
His assistant Furman waited behind his chair, clipboard in hand, taking notes.
Tomas Stillwell, Head of the Greenwardens, had pulled his wheelchair up to sit at Bareius’ left hand. He looked appropriately exhausted, slumping in his chair, his auburn hair limp and unwashed. Even the vine that grew all around his body had started to wilt.
The Head of the Luminian Order, Jameson Allbright, looked like a kindly old grandfather in very expensive white-and-red robes. He stroked his beard and looked out over those assembled with a gentle smile that Shera imagined he wore all the time.
The Farstrider sisters sat next to each other at the far end of the table. One of them had lowered the cloth over her mouth to take a bite of a sandwich.
Shera sat next to them. She already had a headache, and maybe she could stay far enough from Bareius to keep it from getting any worse.
The Head Alchemist rubbed his hands together eagerly. “A financial strike, that’s the ticket. Once the Farstriders publish their account of the peace meeting, all fairly and accurately, we’ll have the standing to release our own interpretation. I own enough printing companies to paper every wall with news-sheets between here and Axciss.”
The Witnesses glanced at each other so quickly that Shera doubted anyone else noticed.
They wouldn’t be happy with his bald declaration of intent to spin their account to political advantage, but they would allow it. That was the fate of the Guild of Witnesses; they would speak the unvarnished truth, and then someone else would come along and varnish it.
Bareius was caught up in the beauty of his own vision. “In the Capital alone…well, the greater Capital region including its outlying townships…there are hundreds of companies still known for having major contracts with the throne or Imperialist Guilds. Many of them can’t lose their Imperial contracts, but they can’t lose their private business either. With doubt cast on their Imperial Steward, we can pressure their private clients to back out.
“That will create all sorts of opportunity, I don’t have to tell you. Either the Imperialists provide them undue support, in which case we’ve created a financial burden for our opponents, or they’ll have to find new suppliers for everything from soap to ammunition to roof tiles. I fully anticipate picking up some of these failing businesses for a handful of bits, and those private clients will turn to us.”
Stillwell let out a heavy breath, massaging his temples with both hands. “That’s all well and good for your bottom line, Bareius, but what about the rest of us? I don’t have a mark to my name anymore. My people aren’t starving, for the moment, but they’re stacked like firewood in every stable that will house us. And our Kameira need special care that we’re no longer equipped to give them; we’ve collected a menagerie of creatures that are about to go feral without special medication, food, space…”
“You need, you need, you need.” Bareius sneered at the Greenwarden. “What do you give us, Stillwell? What have you ever done for us?”
“Your plan is too mild, Bareius,” Allbright said gravely. Shera had only met the man once before the last few days, and she’d found him even-tempered, thoughtful, and sharper than the public realized. “Bold actions are needed. We cannot be playing market games with Elder thralls. Even our own survival is secondary. Every word we trade here is another moment that we allow Kelarac to sit with the reins of our Empire in his hands.”
The Luminian braced both hands on the table as though he meant to push to his feet at any second. “We must act now! Rile up the people, drive them as a righteous army into the Imperial Palace and flush out the Elderspawn while their forces are still weak!”
So much for even-tempered.
Shera held her pounding head in both hands as the men continued to bicker.
No one had suggested a reasonable course of action. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to Allbright that no matter how weak the Imperialists were, the Independents were even weaker. Or maybe it had occurred to him, and he expected the righteousness of their cause to drum up enough support to make the difference.
Her aching joints made her feel thirty years older, and she was starting to shiver with fever. She didn’t have the fortitude to listen anymore.
Shera tilted her head to one side, holding up a hand to shield herself from the other side of the table. “Will you be all right on your own?” she whispered.
Together, the Farstriders gave an almost imperceptible nod.
One of the major reasons she had agreed to this meeting was to cover for the Witnesses if necessary. She wouldn’t put it past Bareius to pressure them into writing what he wanted them to say. It wouldn’t work, but she could at least spare the Witnesses the discomfort.
But this was too much useless talk. She had to get out.
Shera stood, flipped up her gray hood, and began to walk out of the room.
The conversation between Allbright, Stillwell, and Bareius sputtered and died as soon as she pushed back her chair. They watched her until she had her hand on the door.
“You have some urgent business, Shera?” Bareius asked through a gleaming fake smile.
“Yeah,” Shera said. “I’m going to kill everyone.”
She shoved open the door, walking out into the crowd of Consultants. “Kerian.”
“Yes, Guild Head?” As expected, Kerian had taken up a post outside the door. She would have heard everything that had gone on inside, though they had been forced to drill new peepholes into the room after Estyr and Loreli had invested it for privacy.
“Assemble the Gardeners. I’ll be in my room.”
The Rainworth Imperial Library had a vast emergency shelter beneath it, but Shera’s room was above the library itself. The former head librarian had lived with the books, and the Architects had claimed her bedroom on behalf of their Guild Head.
Shera didn’t complain. On top of indoor plumbing and a private washroom, it had the biggest bed.
She collapsed into it, giving her sick and tender body a rest. Even for Kerian, it would take a little time to gather up all the Gardeners, and Shera intended to put that time to good use.
A moment later, she was shaken awake by Kerian’s firm hand. A dozen braids hung down over Shera’s face, and Kerian’s scarred lips held a gentle smile.
“I’m sorry, Shera. An hour was as long as I could take.”
Shera grumbled something incoherent. The nap s
eemed to have made everything worse rather than better.
She tried to sit up, but Kerian put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “A moment.” Kerian settled onto the foot of the bed, gazing off at the door.
If she took much longer before speaking, Shera was in danger of drifting off again.
“I take it you’re going to kill all the Imperialist leaders?” Kerian asked at last.
“Why play the game when I can stab my opponent in the throat?”
“And what becomes of us after that? Our Guild, I mean. The Emperor was our moral compass; with him gone, we are nothing better than a band of mercenary spies. If we continue to operate only for the highest bidder, without the good of the Empire as our guiding star, then our moral compass becomes the man with the deepest pockets.”
Shera made a choking sound deep in her ravaged throat. The man with the deepest pockets was Nathanael Bareius.
“He is a problem we can solve.”
“And the person who replaces him?” Kerian looked perfectly poised, watching Shera with patience. “We need a new code of behavior. And the sooner we begin operating by it, the better.”
Shera relaxed back onto her pillows. “Great. What did you have in mind?”
“The Architects and I have discussed a number of options, but we don’t decide anymore. You do.”
“Not for long. I’ll see us through this, make sure the world holds together even if the Empire falls apart, and then I’m out. We did without a Soulbound tied to Bastion’s Veil for centuries.”
She had given this quite a bit of thought, especially over the last few days. They didn’t need a Soulbound operating Bastion’s Veil. Especially when they didn’t even hold the Gray Island.
“I think you can do better than that.”
If only the potion’s side effects were a little worse, Shera thought. Then I might pass out.
“I don’t want to do any better than that. I told you, I never chose to be Guild Head.” No one had chosen her. It was freak chance.
“That’s true, you didn’t choose. Yala did.”
Shera wondered if this was Kerian’s idea of a joke. Kerian’s sense of humor could be very dry. “I was trying to save the Veil in my shear. I didn’t even know I could be Soulbound twice, and Yala had no idea it was going to happen.”
“No, she didn’t. But the Mistress of the Mists was not such a well-known story. If she had not acknowledged you as Guild Head, no one else could have either. She could have kept control of the Guild, and she chose not to.”
“Yala hates me.”
“I think she did, and she chose you anyway. Because she saw what a Guild Head like you could mean for the Consultants.”
Shera groaned as she levered her sick body off the bed, grabbing her shroud off the nightstand. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“You are a Soulbound as powerful as the other Guild Heads, and a symbol that unites us in single purpose in a way that the Council never could. We need singular vision now more than ever.”
Shera’s legs swayed unsteadily, and Kerian supported her gently with one hand. Shera pulled the shroud around her face, tying the ends behind her neck and tucking the loose cloth into her collar.
“We can have this conversation after this poison wears off,” Shera said. “But I still say I’m the worst person in the entire Guild for this job.”
Kerian remained calm, still wearing a gentle smile. “That is up to you.”
Shera grumbled under her breath as she walked over to the door. “They out there?”
Kerian nodded.
“Great.”
Shera threw the doors open.
Only fifteen sets of true Gardener shears remained in the Guild. There were occasionally more Gardeners than that, and the fifteen most senior were awarded with shears. A handful of Gardeners had died in the Imperial Palace, and three more were out on assignment, so Shera had expected to see about ten people outside her doors.
Instead, the hall was packed with almost thirty people, all dressed in Consultant blacks. Thirteen of them carried shears, with Shera and Kerian holding the remaining two pairs.
Shera leaned back into her room to shoot Kerian an annoyed look.
“Oh yes, and I appointed new Gardeners,” Kerian said. “I know you’re the Guild Head, but I’m still High Gardener.”
Shera slid outside and slammed the door behind her. Meia looked like she was stifling a smile for some reason, and she stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Ayana. The ghostly Gardener had taken a number of injuries in the Imperial Palace and had been on bed rest until now, but it seemed she had been deemed well enough to attend a meeting.
While watching Shera, Ayana too looked like she was laughing at a private joke. Well, at least two of them were having fun.
The rest were a collection of Gardeners from various generations.
A few, she realized, weren’t even twenty. The Gardener generation after hers. The oldest among them looked to be in their forties, as most Gardeners retired or moved to the Architects by fifty. As the High Gardener, Kerian had kept her shears, but she was never sent on assignments.
That still only accounted for thirteen. The remaining attendees were the pseudo-Gardeners that Maxwell had trained before they were stolen away by the Magisters.
Only one of them carried a real pair of shears: Benji, the man who had first recognized her after their reunion.
She felt an indescribable pang as she realized that the shears he wore must be Lucan’s.
Shera jerked a thumb at the imitation Gardeners. “Does everybody here live up to your standards, Instructor Ayana?”
“Mostly,” Ayana’s horrible voice scraped out. “Some are lazy and irresponsible.”
Meia’s face tightened with the effort of restraining her smile. If they had been alone, she would have joined in mocking Shera with gusto.
“A thousand lashes for you,” Shera muttered. “Then you’re drawn and quartered. The rest of you, listen up.”
They all straightened at that, especially the baby Gardeners. They had been desperate to prove themselves to her since the day she’d pulled them out of the Gray Island prisons.
Now they had their chance.
“You may have heard that peace talks fell through.” It was a grim joke, and no one laughed. They had all fought in the Palace. “Since we won’t have peace, that means it’s a fight. The other Guild Heads have their opinions about how we’re going to win, but I have mine.”
Shera gestured vaguely and found three Shepherds rushing forward to hand her a stool, a headache pill, and a glass of water.
Well, there were some perks to being Head of the Consultant’s Guild.
She took the stool and sat, resting her back against the door behind her. “There’s only one reason why we can’t have an Emperor. It’s the same reason why the real Emperor let himself die: because with one person on the throne, the Great Elders only need to take over one person to have the world.
“We’re not fighting over the shape of our government. What do we know about government? We’re fighting because Kelarac has his hooks in their Emperor. And our worst-case scenario for everyone is an Elder wearing the crown.”
Though everyone present knew that already, a murmur of anger went through the Gardeners.
“We’re not letting Kelarac rule the world. The Architects will be planning, looking for the best strategies, the most perfect tools for the job.” Shera reached out for the glass of water, took a sip, and then downed the headache pill as well.
“I’m not an Architect. I’m a Gardener. Here’s what we’re going to do.”
Chapter Ten
two years ago
“Did the Emperor tell you he was going to release the Regents?” Lucan asked Yala.
It had taken him months to arrange a secret meeting with the High Mason, and this was as close to private as they would ever be. They sat in one of the smaller client rooms, as though he had come here to hire a Consultant and she represented the Guild.
&n
bsp; There were three peepholes around the room, so cleverly concealed that he couldn’t pick them out even though he knew where they were. One was positioned inside a portrait of the Emperor at sea, another behind the tall potted flower in the corner, and the third embedded in the fixture of the room’s quicklamp.
All of those observation posts would be manned by Yala’s subordinates, though invested padding would dull the sounds and keep them from hearing the details of the conversation.
Lucan had prepared for as much. He had his own insurance.
If Yala was treating him like a client, she hadn’t dressed the part. She wore blacks up to the neck, no shroud, and her gray-streaked blonde hair was bound into a single tail. Yala didn’t have the demeanor to meet with clients. One of the reasons she’d been assigned to the Masons.
Her eyebrows shot up, but otherwise her expression gave no clue what she thought of his abrupt question. “The Emperor was not in the habit of sharing his plans with me.”
“I thought you would appreciate cutting to the heart of the matter. The Regents are resting here, on the Gray Island. The Emperor told you that before his mind was taken over by Nakothi, he planned on installing them as his successors, so you moved up his timetable. If you’ll confirm whether I’m correct, I can move on.”
Yala picked up a nearby pen, seemingly for the sole purpose of twirling it around her finger. “Whether you’re right or not, I don’t see why I should confirm it. Nor why you should bring it to me.”
Lucan’s first instinct had been to free the Regents himself, releasing them from their coffins and letting them deal with the Council of Architects. Even Shera had encouraged him to do so, once he’d shared the situation with her.
But he refrained.
“I did not hear the Emperor give that order,” Lucan said. “I can’t find any record of it. And I imagine, if such an order did exist, you would have a good reason for not following it. I’d like to know what that reason is.”
Yala studied him, still spinning the pen in one hand. He expected her to ask him about his security precautions—how did he have the audacity to challenge Yala directly, when he knew she could have him disposed of? She would suspect that he had backup plans, which of course he did.
